Beautiful Monster
by ZoZo1770
Summary: What if Christine had chosen Erik? Series of vignettes. Lemons in later chapters.
1. Un

Summary: What if Christine had chosen Erik? Series of vignettes. Lemons in later chapters.

So, I finally went and saw Phantom of the Opera at Her Majesty's Theatre last night and, needless to say, my POTO obsession has started again. No matter how much I loved the movie, nothing compares to seeing it live - I advise you all go see it if you haven't already! I was sitting directly underneath the chandelier when it fell, too :D

Written in a slightly different style to what I usually do, and there will be a lemon or two in later chapters.

* * *

'Make your choice.'

The angel's tone was cold and unforgiving.

Christine gazed fearfully into the depths of the eyes of death. Dark, wide, angry eyes, yet at the same time passionate, desperate and such – such sad, such _pitiful _eyes. Eyes that spoke of pain, that begged for love. Eyes that demanded Christine finally chose.

And then she was kissing him, hating herself and yet relishing the feel of her lips on his deformed ones, her hands on his rough, calloused cheeks, his breathless moan of surprise against her mouth. She could feel Raoul's eyes on her and yet this somehow felt _right_ – right and yet so _confusing –_

Her arms were wrapped around his waist now, pulling him closer as she continued to caress him. It seemed to last forever, and she just about felt him tentatively putting his arms around her, as though he was not quite sure whether or not to do so. When she finally pulled away he was weeping – but whether his tears were tears of sadness, joy or guilt, she did not know.

He turned quickly away from her.

'Go,' he muttered, his voice shaking. Christine's eyes widened. No, _no_, this was not how it was supposed to be! She looked at Raoul, then back at her angel, feeling somehow… _drawn_ to him. Compelled to stay.

And yet the phantom would have none of it.

'Leave. Quickly, before they find you! Take the boat, and –'

He stopped before gazing into her eyes. 'Promise me you will never speak of what happened tonight. _Swear it_!'

She could only manage a nod before he was pushing her towards Raoul – poor, sweet Raoul, who deserved none of this and yet somehow deserved it all – the mob had been his idea – he had vowed to hunt down her angel – and she realised she _loved _this angel – this damned, fallen angel who was frightening and murderous and yet _beautiful_ –

But no – Christine must obey her teacher, must she not? She must leave, if that was what he wanted –

But _was_ it what he wanted?

She was untying Raoul now, removing the noose from around his neck, embracing him, yet it did not feel _right_ – what _was_ this feeling?

She glanced back at her angel, wanting him to pull her away from Raoul, wanting him to beg her to stay, but he had his back turned. Before she knew it she was being hurriedly pulled away from the main part of the angel's – no, _phantom's _– lair. Raoul was already on the boat, and Christine was about to step on before turning and glancing behind her.

'Wait.'

Raoul stopped.

'I can't leave him. Not like this.'

He stared at her incredulously. 'He's a monster.'

Yes, he was. A monster, but a beautiful monster. A passionate monster – a desperate, lonely, pitiful monster.

'It will be a final goodbye. Nothing more.'

But would it?

Raoul nodded and Christine almost ran back to her angel.

He was sobbing when she reached him, kneeling and singing along half-heartedly to a music box which held a monkey playing the cymbals. His voice was so beautiful and tender and yet so _sad_, and she stood, mesmerised by his tone.

He knew she was behind him, of course he knew. He turned around slowly, standing up, and the words that escaped his disfigured lips were shaky, fragile, tentative.

'…I love you.'

It was barely a whisper. Christine gazed at him, into those large, entrancing, pitiful eyes. Her mind was made up in an instant.

* * *

Yeah, as you could tell, the dialogue was based on the musical but not exactly word-for-word, for obvious reasons.

Reviews greatly appreciated!


	2. Deux

Next chapter up, and more of a vignette-ish length this time!

* * *

The night crept by.

Confronting Raoul had been... difficult? No, not difficult. It had not been messy, either. It had not been slow, or heated. It had been quick, gentle, and yet had left Christine with a feeling of guilt that would doubtless haunt her for a while.

Raoul had gone quietly, with a curt nod and eyes that seemed to voice disappointment rather than surprise. Had he been expecting it?

Now, Christine was sitting on the swan bed in which her angel had laid her when she first visited his lair. How it seemed like a lifetime ago, now... she listened as he played a beautiful yet haunting melody, the organ's music dancing delicately about the air. After a few moments she walked cautiously – cautiously? Why cautiously? She had nothing more to fear, yes? – down to the main... hall? Was that it? She had questions, so _many_ questions... and yet when she saw her angel playing, the questions fled from her mind.

She wanted him. But she feared him also.

He had put his mask back on, and Christine was instantly reminded of a scene familiar to this. She had walked down this same path, from the same swan bed, to the same music playing from the same organ by the same man...

She had come up behind him now, and the same question rang in her head.

_Whose is that face in the mask?_

She tentatively touched his cheek, her hand gliding gently over his skin – such soft, such _smooth_ skin! He stopped playing, leaning into her touch with a barely audible sigh, and it was then that her fingers softly played at the edges of her angel's mask.

She remembered what had happened next. She had torn it off to reveal his disfigured face and his fearful temper. Dare she risk it again?

And yet... would he fling her away from him now? She had seen him for what he was – what else did he have to hide?

She was broken out of her thoughts by his hand on top of hers, pressing it to the white material of his mask, towards the edges, entwining her fingers with his.

_Take it off._

'I don't know your name,' she whispered, 'please... let me know who my angel of music truly is...'

The mask came away and fell to the floor, forgotten in a matter of moments. The angel's reply was tender and intimate, yet simple.

'Erik.'

* * *

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